


Kraft Macaroni and Philadelphia Cream Cheese

by likebrightness



Series: Mac and Cheese [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likebrightness/pseuds/likebrightness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana gets paired with the dumb new kid for a social studies project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kraft Macaroni and Philadelphia Cream Cheese

  
  
Santana had turned 12 before anyone else in the sixth grade—except Jimmy, but he had been held back twice—and she decided that meant she was in charge. When she whipped her hair and smiled, mostly predatory, no one disagreed.

So she was pissed when she got paired with the dumb new kid for a social studies project on the Incas. Brittany didn’t notice, though, she was all wide eyes and blonde hair and a dopey smile. Santana rolled her eyes at the girl but agreed to go to her house after school to study—she wanted ammunition to make fun of the blonde, and seeing her house and family was a surefire way to get it.

Except Brittany had a really nice house, and both her parents were there to welcome them home. Santana thought of the long hours her parents worked and actually felt jealous.

Things got weird quickly, though. Mrs. Pierce made them macaroni and cheese—brain food, she’d called it and Brittany giggled, Santana rolled her eyes. It was good, the best, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (Santana sometimes had dreams about being one of the kids in the commercials singing “I got tha blues!”, but she never told anyone.) Santana said thanks, but Brittany took one bite and started to cry.

“You never make it as good as Matty did!”

Mr. Pierce appeared in the kitchen, immediately by his wife’s side. “Now, honey,” he said, glancing nervously at Santana, “you wanna come talk about this in Daddy’s office?”

“No!” Brittany threw her fork down. “You never make macaroni as good as Matty. His is creamier and it’s better and I miss him and want him back!”

She stomped up to her room. Santana could hear each of her footsteps until Brittany threw herself onto her bed to cry into her pillow (Santana didn’t know that yet, couldn’t hear that from downstairs).

Santana just looked, dumbfounded, at the Pierces and they just looked back.

“It’s really good, I swear,” she said. She knew how to win adults over—be polite and act better than their kid. “I don’t know what she was talking about. Thanks a lot. I’ll just finish it and go, though. We can work on our project another time.”

Santana hoped that would be that, the Pierces would apologize and maybe one of them would go give Brittany a talking to for acting out in front of guests, but Santana would be free to go home and play on her computer and avoid homework.

Instead, Mrs. Pierce sat in the chair on one side of her, and Mr. Pierce sat in the chair on the other. Santana did not like where this was going.

“We weren’t going to tell anyone,” Mrs. Pierce said, and now it looked like she was about to cry, too. “We wanted Brittany to be able to grow up someplace people weren’t pitying her.”

“But you’re her friend, right? You’re partners on this project.”

Santana did not feel like telling him she was forced to be partners with Brittany would be a good idea. She just nodded.

Mrs. Pierce took Santana’s hand. “Brittany’s brother, Matt, was killed in a car accident earlier this year.”

Santana’s eyes widened. She’d never known anybody who’d died before.

“Brittany was in the car with him, she hit her head,” Mr. Pierce said. “So she’s a little different. But she’s a really great kid. You just have to be patient with her.”

No one had ever called Santana Lopez patient. Her parents spoiled her because they were never around, so when she wanted something, she got it. She was allowed to open Christmas presents early, and if she opened them all before the 25th, her dad went out and bought her more. At school, the girls, and even some of the boys, were so afraid of her that she ruled there, too. She had never had to be patient for anything in her entire life.

But here were these two _grown-ups_ , and they were almost in tears— _grown-ups. crying_. Santana just looked at them.

“Why don’t you go up and try to talk to her?” Mrs. Pierce said. “I’m sure she’s calmed down and you can work on your project.”

Santana nodded and found herself halfway up the staircase before she knew what she was doing. She didn’t even know where Brittany’s room was. But the Pierces had stayed in the kitchen, and Santana was pretty sure they were actually crying now, tears streaming down their faces instead of just welling in their eyes, and so she just kept going upstairs.

Brittany’s room was the only one with the door closed. Santana could hear her muffled whimpers.

She knocked.

“Um, Brittany? Can I come in?”

“Fine,” Brittany said. It was muffled, too.

Brittany’s room was painted pale yellow except for one wall, which had blue wallpaper with rainbows on it. Santana thought it looked like a little kid’s room. Brittany was lying facedown on a blue bedspread that matched the wallpaper, a giant rainbow in the middle of it.

Santana looked at her fingernails.

“Um. Hey.”

“Hey,” Brittany said, voice still muffled by the pillow.

“You wanna work on our project?”

“No.”

“You wanna talk about boys?” Santana asked.

“No.”

“You want me to go home?”

Brittany finally looked up at her. She had clearly been crying, face blotched red. She just looked at Santana for a minute.

“No,” she said.

Santana saw nail polish on Brittany’s bedside table. “Can I use your nail polish?”

Brittany nodded. “Sure.”

“Well, scooch over then. I’m gonna paint my toenails.”

Brittany moved over on the bed and Santana slid in next to her and pulled off her socks. She grabbed the nail polish and shook it. It was yellow, which was not usually Santana’s color, but she felt awkward and this girl was crying ’cause her brother was _dead_ , and it was the only thing Santana could think to do that wasn’t walk out the door and go home.

Brittany just watched her, the whole time she was painting the toenails on her left foot, Brittany just looked at her. It was weird. Santana wondered what Kelsey would say if she knew the new girl was “a little different.” But Santana also thought that maybe she wouldn’t tell Kelsey. Kelsey was probably Santana’s best friend, but she was kind of annoying, always trying to be mean to other kids to impress Santana. Santana was only mean when it served a purpose, and yeah, it often did, so maybe she got a reputation for being a bitch, but at least she wasn’t like Kelsey, who did it for sport.

Yeah, Santana didn’t think she’d tell Kelsey anything about Brittany.

But still, Brittany watching her was getting a little too weird for her, so she started talking. She was just babbling, really, a habit she’d picked up from having a nanny—she needed someone to tell things to, and it didn’t matter that the nanny didn’t care or didn’t talk back. It was better to say them and get them out.

So Santana talked about how this Inca project was kind of dumb, and how Mrs. Parsons, who assigned it, was really dumb, and how it was also dumb that you couldn’t join Junior Cheerios until seventh grade. She talked about how Greg Klempel in the eighth grade had a crush on her, but she wasn’t going to do anything because even if he was in eighth grade, his name was _Greg_ and that’s a gross name. She talked about how Britney Spears was super talented and about how those Harry Potter books were actually kind of stupid and totally overrated. She even talked about how Kelsey was kind of a bitch and Santana wasn’t sure she wanted to be best friends with her anymore.

“You can be best friends with me,” Brittany said.

Santana had been talking for almost fifteen minutes, had completely finished painting her toenails, and Brittany hadn’t said a word, but now here she was proposing they be best friends.

“I mean, we just met.” It was all Santana could think of to say.

“Yeah, but you like my nail polish. And I’m really good at painting other people’s nails, so if you can’t paint your right hand with your left, I can just paint it for you. And I love Britney Spears. I mean, I kind of hate her because I feel like she stole my name, ’cause, you know, I’m Brittany S. Pierce. But she is super talented, you’re right. And I’ve never read any of the Harry Potter books because they are like, really big. And, well, I’ve never done cheerleader stuff before, but I’ve taken dance classes, so maybe next year we can do Junior Cheerios together.”

Brittany just looked at her, and her eyes were really wide and blue, and her smile was kind of dopey still, but it was cute, and hopeful, and Santana had never had anyone who wanted to be friends because they liked the same nail polish. She didn’t even like the stupid nail polish, but she liked that Brittany didn’t want to be friends because Santana was popular or hot or rich. She liked that Brittany had clearly reached a bit, for reasons to be friends, like she wanted it enough that even though being able to paint nails well was not really a reason to be friends, she used it.

“Well, okay. I guess,” Santana said.

Brittany squealed and giggled. “I’m not gonna hug you right now because I don’t want you to move and mess up your toenails, but can we hug later?”

Santana laughed. “Yeah, I guess.”

This Brittany kid was a little different, but she liked that.

After Santana’s nail polish dried, the girls read a little about the Incas, but mostly they talked about boys—Tom Neely in the seventh grade was the cutest—and make-up—the key was to wear as little as possible but still look hot (“This is where it helps that we’re both naturally gorgeous,” Brittany said, and Santana giggled)—and the best razors—razors that were supposed to be for boys, plus super girly shaving cream.

Santana didn’t go home until Brittany’s parents said it was time for dinner. They invited her to stay but even if she liked Brittany, she was still a little uncomfortable with grown ups who cried, so she said no. While Brittany was in the bathroom, washing her hands for dinner, Mrs. Pierce walked Santana out.

“Thanks again, Mrs. Pierce,” Santana said, politeness kicking back in.

“Anytime, Santana.”

Santana turned to go, but stopped for a second. “Oh, and Mrs. P?”

“Yes?”

“If you put one of those little packets of cream cheese in the macaroni, it makes it creamier.”

She bounded down the porch steps and down the street toward her house without looking back, just in case Mrs. Pierce was going to cry again.

  



End file.
